Thirty-Eight Potters
by cheerycherry23
Summary: The Dark Lord had ordered his minions to capture Harry Potter as the boy made his way from the Dursleys to the Burrow, and they've succeeded — a little *too* well.


_This is a translation of a ficlet by Ассиди (Assidi) "Тридцать восемь Поттеров" which you can find here: __www *dot* snapetales __*dot* __com *slash* index __*dot* __php?fic_id=3248. I would like to say a huge thank you to the author for the fun I had reading and translating her story, and many thanks to my beta_ _merelydovely for all the help with this translation, elaborate comments on my phrasing and impressively prompt replies._

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A black-haired boy with a scar stood in front of Voldemort, who was sitting solemnly in an antique carved chair and darting glances at the wall clock.

"This could be the true Potter, couldn't it, my Lord?" Pettigrew whispered from behind the Dark Lord's chair.

Pettigrew was lucky indeed that the Dark Lord had not heard him, for Potter's body shuddered visibly, and his appearance began to change.

"Avada Kedavra," Voldemort exclaimed, raising his wand.

"Twenty-one," said Pettigrew pensively, and came out to take the body.

Voldemort sat back, run down. He had been happy to hear that Potter was going to be transported from the Dursleys to the Burrow – after all, he had reasoned, it could hardly be difficult to seize Potter en route. Who could have guessed that this – Voldemort hissed something in Parseltongue in lieu of an appropriate epithet – this Order of Phoenix had made a three-year supply of Polyjuice Potion and transformed _all_ its members into Potters? Twenty-one Potters taken to the Dark Lord's residence, only for all of them to turn out fake!

"My Lord," cried Lucius Malfoy, slamming the door and rushing into the hall. "Another delivery of sixteen Potters has arrived. One of them is bound to be true."

Snape, who had just come out of thin air right behind Malfoy's back, did nothing but smile incredulously.

The Dark Lord sat up.

"Take them in."

Half an hour later, his excitement had vanished entirely.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Thirty-five." Pettigrew kept counting in the same plaintive tone.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Thirty-six."

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Thirty-seven..."

"Ava -"

"My Lord," Malfoy interrupted him. "We have run out of Potters."

"How could we?" asked Voldemort resentfully.

"We brought you sixteen Potters," Snape pointed out, deadpan, "and you have killed them all."

"And not a single one was true!" The Dark Lord, taken with rage, hit an armrest of his chair with his wand, leaving the chair with a dent shaped like Potter's scar. "How long are you going to keep giving me these fakes?"

"If anyone is getting fakes, it's Nagini," said Pettigrew, in a small voice so that no one could hear him this time either.

"But how do we recognize the true one, my Lord?" Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. "They are all alike."

"The true Potter should be bald," Snape supplied.

"Why?" asked Voldemort, uncomprehending.

"All his hair must have gone in the Polyjuice Potion."

Voldemort leaned back in his chair again, thinking over Snape's hypothesis. He had a difficult time picturing Potter bald.

Seeing a break, Malfoy slipped out the hall to check if, by any chance, the Death Eaters had brought more Potters.

"Have you got any Firewhiskey, Snape?" asked Voldemort, going limp.

Snape readily handed him the flask that he had been keeping at his belt. Voldemort downed it in one gulp –

and found himself shuddering and slowly transforming into Potter.

Snape panicked. Instead of the Firewhiskey flask that he kept at his right side, he had proffered the one with the Polyjuice Potion, sequestered from one of the Potters.

"You - !" yelled the Dark Lord, and he dashed to that loyal servant of his to kill him outright – barehanded, mind you, as he had lost hold of his wand during the transformation.

The door swung open again, admitting Malfoy. Taking in the picture before him – a completely bald Potter trying to strangle Snape – he gave in to his gut reaction, jerked his wand up and shouted:

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Thirty-eight," said Pettigrew in a melancholy tone, and he came out from behind the chair to take the body away.


End file.
